Regrets
by DreamerofCurses
Summary: In the lair, they were cramped. Bunched up on on each other. When they finally leave the lair, free to go their own ways, the emptiness allows regrets to creep in. Four short pieces from each pov. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**M [with flourish]**

Oil paints were easiest to work with, fixing mistakes days or even weeks after he realized he'd done something wrong. Oils were forgiving. But more and more he found himself drifting to watercolors, so cruel in how they could drip and alter the work. The only medium he refused to work in was ink. When the pen touched the paper, that was it. Indelible. Unchangeable. You had better have a steady hand and a backup plan for hiding those stray marks.

A row of canvases lined the wall, stacked four or five deep. Most of them were commissions. He would mail them out within the week, all with the stylized M and flourish that was his signature. None of his clients knew what he was. All they saw was his website and his portfolio.

He kept a steady supply of junk food behind him, and multiple soda cans less for the sugar and more to avoid drinking the brush water yet more time.

Today's picture was for himself. The lair, the way he remembered it.

They hadn't lived there in years. Every detail wavered with time and memory and emotion so that the canvas washed in with green shadows and blurry streaks of light.

The eldest, as smoky as the candle before him. They heard him little and saw him less, and even back then he had found shadows more inviting than the light.

Michelangelo wondered, sometimes, if his brother would have stepped aside. Would have allowed someone else to step up. Not Raphael. There was too much animosity and anger there. But if Michelangelo had tried his hand at it, had voiced his opinions more confidently, had been just a little more serious. Years had turned their brother into a walking ghost. The empty space was still waiting for someone to fill it, to take charge and even command him back, if only that someone was confident enough.

He dipped the brush in water, wiping off the dregs. Added a darker, olive shade of green.

Had he ever been confident enough? Or patient enough to assist Donatello, painted behind distorting, rounded beakers and flasks. He could have helped instead of broken things for attention. Could have been at his brother's shoulder instead of forever at arm's reach. After all, when he put his mind to it, he managed last second saves with hasty instructions and the barest understanding of what he was doing. Imagine what he could have done. Could have done.

Everything about Raphael was ruddy. Red mask, red anger, red frustration. The punching bag took his punishment, but then so did the rest of them. Michelangelo had done his best to distract his brother, worrying at him like a crow pulling the tail feathers of an eagle, playing until Raphael was laughing again.

But Raphael trailed into the dark shadows, and his laughter came far less when Splinter passed, now just a gray impression in the corner of the canvas. One moment quick with life, one more moment gone. Like smoke blown out of his mouth. Like flame extinguished from his eyes. The flame lost from their master took the fire out of Raphael who no longer knew what to do with himself.

Wash the brush. A lighter shade of green, and flecks of orange. He held the brush to the canvas.

And paused.

The space he'd left for himself felt too small, cramped between his siblings. He felt he should paint himself with arms outstretched, in a playful back flip, a cartwheel or a somersault. Or stretched out on the floor, reading a comic book. Or.

Drawing? Writing? It felt so. His siblings had deep shadows around themselves, the internal conflict that came with heavy passions or desires.

What had he wanted?

What did he want?

His brush touched the canvas, and a long blur of green and orange dripped down in a muddy mess.

He lowered the brush back into the water. Cleaned all the paint from it. Shoved the canvas in a far corner of his workshop and began working on another commission.

The canvas collected dust that slowly filled in all the color.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disorder**

"Internet Addiction Disorder"

"Social Media Dependency"

"Techno-disorders and Treatment Options"

X out. Close tab. Scoff.

Didn't they realize that it wasn't a dependency? It was a life line. Survival.

At least an online post had an emoticon to tell you what the poster was feeling. No facial ticks to decipher. No voice tones to figure out. And if he still got it wrong, then it wasn't his fault. They should have articulated their thoughts more clearly.

Blueprints. Designs. Diagrams. Manuals. Easy to read and parse. Clear. Clean. No mess except oil and steel shavings.

No tears. No crying. No goodbyes.

Machines do not get upset. They may break, but a quick repair and a replacement part and they worked as good as new.

He knew every junk yard, every "old tech" drop off point, every recycle center and every shop that didn't use a decent security system. He could repurpose disparate parts into working wholes. And now with the unlimited resources that wealth and success brought?

Cold fusion? He'd worked the math and an Israeli firm was busy with the practical side.

Recycling? Worked to less than a 3% loss as everything was salvaged, repurposed or used for fuel.

Clean energy? Currently licensed and monetized. You're welcome. What's next?

The quiet, antiseptic hum of a well-ordered lab.

The quiet of a groundfloor workspace all to himself.

The quiet of only his own breath and heartbeat.

there were days where he fell asleep on his workbench and dreamed of the hardship of the lair and twisting wires salvaged from ancient forgotten tunnels and brought dim light to his siblings and the quiet mornings he spent in the same room as Leonardo as they read side by side in comfortable companionship and the long afternoons working on an engine with Raphael with their hands covered in motor oil and grease and even the nights of movie marathons with Michelangelo often beneath the same blanket to huddle in fear with eyes wide as saucers as the monster crept in from the darkness

His phone beeped. The screen lit with the welcoming text inviting him out. A movie. Dinner. The park.

Anything.

This afternoon. Or tomorrow. Or.

He turned off the phone.

The arguments had been years ago.

Still too fresh.

He had work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Saki Karai - Obedient Daughter - 1993-2019**

The marker stood like any other in the cemetery, covered with snow under the grey sky. He leaned back against the stone, watching the thick clouds roll together, barely feeling the winter wind.

"Y'know," he murmured, "I didn't really think I'd outlive you."

She didn't respond-they hadn't spoken in years, and now they never would.

"You were human," he said. "You had a huge company and a whole clan. How could I fight that?"

On the far side of the cemetery, down the hill, he saw a single black car rolling slowly along the lane. Far away to be mere dots to him. A safe distance. Like her, now. Safely away.

"You almost took my hand off with that last swipe," he said, flexing the three fingers of that hand, turning it over to show the thick scar across the wrist. "You have no idea how many stitches it took to keep it from falling off. Mutagenic healing's good for something, huh?"

The sun was sinking down into the horizon, pale white as it spread thin rays against the clouds.

"Perk of being a mutant, I guess." He glanced over his shoulder at the dark marble stone. "And you were just human."

He stayed there another few minutes, remembering the way her hair had fallen against her face, the haughty tilt of her head, proud even when he finally won their last fight.

He hadn't cried, then. And it was snow on his face now.

His hands were growing numb.

"I was going to stay longer," he said, turning to kneel on the grave instead. "But there are some drawbacks of being a turtle, too."

He set the incense sticks in the snow and lit them. Thin trails of wispy smoke blew away across the air.

He could have offered a prayer, even though he knew she hadn't believed in anything but her own strength. She hadn't put faith in anything else. Not in Buddhism or any religion. Not in her clan. Certainly not in him.

He understood. He'd once had faith in friends, family. Now, after years and too much said and unsaid, his only faith was in his sword. And his faith had been repayed, so deep into her heart that it had burst through her back.

They were the only ones who'd understood each other. Professional killers. Would she have felt as lost when she had no one left to kill? When all of her enemies lay silent as his own did?

She would have liked the snow. He left it covering her gravestone. And he walked away without a look back.

The wind blew aside the incense soon after.


	4. Chapter 4

After all these years, the lights still came up with the flip of the switch. Raphael left most of them off. He only needed to go as far as the door to Splinter's room.

Every step through their lair brought back echoes. Michelangelo's laughter and scribbling on one of a thousand drawing pads. The warmth of Leonardo's candles as he settled his thoughts. A clatter of batteries and screws as Donatello brought out his latest gadget, working on the living room table.

Raphael chuckled humorlessly. "Living room." He walked by the 'room' in a few short steps. How cramped together they'd been. How far away now. Blown away like smoke.

He stopped at Splinter's door.

A small pile of clipped flowers lay on the floor, wilted so badly that he could barely make out the violet hue. So Leonardo had already been by. A card with candy. A small salt lamp that would glow for months. Everyone had been by recently.

He sat down heavily, staring at the door.

He had nothing to give. Nothing more. Just his exhaustion. His frustration.

Without authority to rebel against, he could do whatever he wanted.

A shame that he still didn't know what he wanted.

Running over rooftops and knocking heads was all well and good for a few months, but then he started to long for a little bit more. After a year...two...he saw what made thieves and thugs. Saw the corruption rooted underneath. Wanted to attack some of the root causes of the thugs in the neighborhoods.

But it was hard for a mutant turtle to affect the human word.

Not, of course, for Donatello. And, to be sure, his brother's wealth and resources were put to great charitable use.

But there was still more to be done. Work that got your hands dirty. Work that took sweat. Artistic innovation. Maybe even a little blood.

The idea began to coalesce in his brain. Work that was larger than some busted heads. Work that would leave a more lasting effect than some shady donations to local soup kitchens. Work with new enemies to be fought.

Work that required a family.

Standing up, he gave a final look to the room where his master still lay under a silk cover, no doubt the candles long since burned out, the flowers long disintegrated, just dusty petals on the pillow.

Scattered. But not forgotten.

He gave the only thing he had to give. A nod of acknowledgement, for all the things said and not said, for the all the things done and not done. And he buried the regrets down deep where he would not have to look at them again.

He had phone calls to make. No time for regrets.


End file.
